Dead people
Edward Oku, Four Strings of a Violin, 1914.
It is really
getting to me.
Everyone is
talking about death.
I heard an old friend died
after a battle with cancer,
and so did another guy
who played a mean guitar,
although it never
did anything for him.
It seems everyone
is obsessed with death.
I see it on social media.
I shouldn’t look at social media.
I can’t stop looking at social media.
I see a video of a small Arab girl
with her face smashed in
and blood everywhere.
I see another girl bleeding profusely
from the head and neck.
I see this in my social media feed.
It is now a large
collection of snuff videos.
I scroll away,
sigh an exasperated sigh
and curse the psychotic bastards
that did this to children.
It is getting to me.
I am surrounded by psychopaths.
Death and murder
are everywhere.
I should throw my phone in the ocean.
I should bury it in the backyard.
I should read comic books.
I should watch The Yogi Bear Show.
I should join an empath support group.
I should find personalized
mental health support.
Everywhere I turn, there is death,
the potential for mass murder
and children with amputations,
old men shot in the back of the head,
and corpses rotting in the street.
It almost seems normal now.
The world is
a biosphere encapsulated
insane asylum of parasitical greed,
slavery, murder, and ecocide.
It’s getting to me.
I heard an old girlfriend
died last year, and before that,
my ex-wife went,
complications from alcoholism.
I am sick and tired of death
and sadism and engineered abuse.
I will turn this
computer off now.
